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By Friday afternoon, George has already decided that Max Verstappen is going to be the reason this weekend becomes unbearable.
It is, admittedly, a conclusion he reaches rather quickly.
And it is not a particularly original conclusion. Max has a talent for making himself unbearable without apparently putting any effort into it. There’s always something. A comment during the drivers' briefing, a smirk in the paddock, some deliberately provocative answer to a question.
But on this particular Friday, it's free practice that starts it all.
There are no points to fight over, no podium to lose, no reason for anyone to behave as if the world is ending because someone gains half a tenth on another car.
It’s supposed to be about gathering data, understanding tyre degradation, and finding the right balance.
It is not supposed to involve Max Verstappen deciding that the best place to test the limits of George's patience is the outside of Turn Four.
George knows the track well enough to understand what Max is doing before it happens.
They are both on a push lap, although neither car is supposed to be fighting for position. Max comes out of the previous corner slightly faster, closes the gap under braking and then, instead of falling back as George expects, keeps the momentum.
George sees him in the mirrors.
The blue-and-yellow car moves closer.
George holds his line.
There is no reason to give Max the corner. There is even less reason to let him make a move that would tell him exactly how much room he can take next time.
George catches a glimpse of the Red Bull beside him, close enough that his stomach tightens despite himself.
For one moment, he is certain Max is going to push him wide.
Instead, Max leaves him just enough space.
George has to run slightly wider over the kerb, the car jolting beneath him before settling again.
By the time they exit the corner, Max is ahead.
George stares at the rear of the Red Bull for a second before reminding himself that this is free practice.
Free. Practice.
There is no reason to be angry. Which, naturally, makes him even angrier.
He finishes the lap, aborts his run and brings the car back into the pits.
The moment he climbs out, one of his engineers says something about the tyre temperatures. George listens, answers, nods in the appropriate places.
His mind is still at Turn Four.
“He’s crazy.” George mutters.
His engineer glances at him. “Who ?”
George just pinches his lips and doesn't answer.
By the time he spots Max twenty minutes later, he has almost convinced himself that he is calm.
It’s impressive how little guilt Max appears to be carrying. He’s standing near the Red Bull garage, helmet gone, race suit tied around his waist, talking to one of his engineers. He is listening attentively, nodding at something on the timing screen.
Then he looks up and their eyes meet.
Max smiles.
George’s irritation flares back up with enough force to make him wonder if his blood pressure is a genuine medical concern.
He could walk past. He should walk past.
Instead, he finds himself stopping.
“That was free practice.”
Max blinks innocently. “I know.”
“Then what was that ?”
Several arguments come to his mind. Something about unnecessary risks, something about track etiquette, something about how there was absolutely no reason to force a car alongside another in a session where they were supposed to be collecting data.
All of them sound less convincing now that Max is looking at him like this.
“You nearly put me over the kerb.”
“You had room.”
“I had a kerb !”
Max's mouth twitches. George stares at him.
The worst part is that Max doesn’t even look particularly pleased with himself. He just looks relaxed. Almost curious, as if George's outrage is simply another interesting piece of information he has collected today.
“It was a practice session,” George repeats, quieter this time. “There was nothing to gain.”
Max shrugs.
“I wanted to see if you'd give me the corner. You didn't. That's useful to know.”
There’s something about the way he says it that makes George want to throw something at him.
Instead, he turns away.
Behind him, he hears Max laugh.
***
In a different way, Saturday morning is worse.
Not because of anything that happens on track.
George manages to put the whole incident behind him until he is halfway through the paddock and hears his name.
He turns.
Max is walking towards him.
There is no reason for his pulse to change.
There is even less reason for him to notice that Max has changed out of his race suit and is wearing a team shirt, sleeves pushed slightly higher than usual, cap resting on top of his head.
George hates that he notices these things.
“About yesterday,” Max says.
George folds his arms.
“Yes ?”
Max pauses, apparently considering his next words.
“I may have been a little optimistic.”
George stares at him.
“A little ?”
Max shrugs. “I left you space. You made the corner.”
“That is hardly the standard we should be aiming for.”
Max laughs, and George has the sudden inconvenient realisation that this is not an apology.
“You came over here to tell me I survived ?”
“I came over here because you looked angry.”
“I am angry.”
George looks at Max for a moment longer than he should. Then he shakes his head and starts walking again.
He makes it three steps before Max says, “I'm sorry.”
George stops. He turns around.
Max is watching him now, expression softer.
“For yesterday,” he adds. “Actually.”
Max’s words seem sincere enough and George should just accept them.
Instead, he says, “You are still a pain in the arse.”
Max smiles. “I know.”
And George wants to throw something at him again.
***
By Saturday afternoon, George has mostly recovered his equilibrium.
Qualifying helps.
There is something reassuring about the structure of it : preparation, run plans, tyre choices, a sequence of decisions that have to be made correctly and at exactly the right moment.
No room for anything else. No room for Max.
Of course, that's until the Dutchman appears in his peripheral vision after qualifying, still wearing his race suit, hair messy from the helmet.
George is talking to one of his engineers when Max catches his eye.
He gives a quick thumbs-up and a wide grin.
George merely raises his eyebrows.
Max points a finger at him, flashes two fingers for George’s P2, and nods approvingly.
George looks away.
Congratulating each other on a good session is hardly their style. There is something distinctly unsettling about this sudden change in behaviour.
He tells himself the feeling in his chest is just irritation.
***
Sunday is different. Sunday is racing.
The distinction matters.
George knows what Max is capable of when there are actual points at stake, but knowing it and experiencing it are two different things.
The first laps are tense without being unusual.
Everyone is close, everyone is aggressive, everyone is trying to gain an advantage before the field settles.
Then Max, who started two places behind him, appears alongside him.
There is something about the way the Red Bull fills the mirror that has become familiar.
The cars run close enough that George can feel the tension in his hands through the steering wheel.
This time, there is no room for a practice-session argument.
They are racing.
George leaves enough space.
Max takes it.
The corner belongs to him.
For several seconds, George watches the Red Bull pull ahead.
Then he hears his engineer's voice in his ear.
“Still a long race ahead, George. Keep the tyres alive.”
George knows exactly what his engineer means.
He also knows that Max is almost certainly smirking beneath that lion-patterned helmet right now.
***
The rain changes everything.
A safety car makes the gap disappear. New strategies are discussed, pit stops are made, and the car becomes far more difficult to place.
Braking points are no longer reliable. Every corner becomes a split-second calculation.
And Max, naturally, decides that this is the perfect moment to remind everyone that common sense is entirely optional.
George sees him take a corner at a speed that makes his stomach drop.
“Bloody hell...”
His engineer says something he doesn't catch.
George keeps his eyes on the Red Bull ahead, though he can barely see it through the heavy spray left in its wake.
Max loses the rear slightly. For half a second, the car twitches sideways. Then he catches it, seamlessly.
George's hands tighten around the wheel. He pushes the radio button so hard the imprint must be sinking into his thumb right through the glove.
“He's going to kill himself.”
“He seems to have control.” His engineer doesn't sound worried at all, which only irritates George further.
Mostly because, deep down, he knows his engineer is right.
Max is in control.
That’s the part he doesn't want to admit. Because Max is ridiculous. He is reckless in ways George would never allow himself to be.
He is also very, very good.
There is something almost hypnotic about watching someone drive a car like they trust it more than they trust gravity.
***
George is exhausted when he crosses the finish line.
By the time he brings his Mercedes to a stop in front of the P3 board, Max is already out of his car at the P1 board.
When George finally climbs out, he is soaked through and running purely on adrenaline, his hands aching from how tightly he’s been gripping the wheel.
Max is still standing there. Wet hair plastered to his forehead, race suit half-undone, water dripping from his sleeves. A grin that should be illegal.
George walks over before he can stop himself.
“You're crazy.”
Max looks at him, his smile widening.
“You may be right.”
George laughs. He cannot help it.
Max's expression changes the moment he hears the sound.
George becomes suddenly aware that Max is looking at him differently. Not like a rival. Not like someone waiting for their next argument.
Something warmer.
Something that causes George's smile to fade into a stunned stillness.
Then someone calls Max's name, and the moment breaks.
***
Later, when the rain becomes heavier and the circuit finally empties, George finds Max leaning against the wall outside the hospitality unit.
The noise of the weekend has faded into something distant.
For once, Max is quiet.
George stops beside him.
“You nearly crashed.”
“I didn't.” Max looks out towards the track. “No need to worry. I had it under control.”
“I worry the appropriate amount when you drive like that in those conditions.”
Max turns his head to look at him, caught slightly off guard.
George realises too late what he has said.
Max’s mouth curves into a teasing smile.
“You were worried about me ?”
“I would worry about any driver stupid enough to take the outside line on a wet track.”
Max stays quiet, but the smile remains. George rolls his eyes and looks away.
The rain keeps falling.
For a while, neither of them says anything.
It should be uncomfortable, but it isn't.
And George finds that sudden, quiet comfort far more dangerous than anything Max does on track.
***
After that, it becomes difficult to identify when the rivalry starts turning into something else.
There is no single moment.
There are simply too many small ones.
Max starts appearing beside him more often.
Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes, apparently, by coincidence.
George knows better than to believe in coincidence where Max Verstappen is concerned.
A coffee appears next to him one morning before a briefing.
He looks at it, then at Max.
“I didn't ask for this.”
“You looked like you needed one.”
George wants to argue. Instead, he takes the cup. Max looks thoroughly pleased with himself for the rest of the morning.
Another time, George finds himself sitting alone after a long day when Max drops into the chair beside him.
Neither of them speaks for a while.
The silence is comfortable. That still surprises George more than anything else.
Eventually, Max starts telling him a story about something that happened years ago.
It isn't particularly funny.
Max makes it funny anyway.
George laughs, and Max stops halfway through the story.
“What ?”
“You're smiling.”
George instantly pulls his expression back under control.
“I am allowed to smile.”
Max looks delighted. George looks away.
There is something dangerous about being seen so clearly by the person who usually causes you to lose your composure.
Soon enough, it becomes a game between them. Max seems to have decided that George's ability to maintain a straight face is a personal challenge.
Some jokes are terrible. Some are worse.
A few are so completely inappropriate that George has to turn his head to hide the smile breaking through.
And every time he does, Max looks at him with a warmth that makes something uncomfortable settle beneath George's ribs.
One other evening, they end up alone again in a quiet corner of the paddock.
George is exhausted enough that he doesn't even have the energy to move when Max sits down next to him.
“You know,” Max says softly, “you smile more when you're tired.”
George glances at him. “That is absolute nonsense.”
“You're doing it now.”
“I am not.”
He isn't, but he can feel the traitorous twitch at the corner of his mouth, and he fights to smooth it away.
That only makes Max laugh.
“There,” Max says, nudging his shoulder. “Again.”
George shakes his head.
“You really are incapable of behaving normally.”
“I never said I was normal.”
“No. That much is painfully obvious.”
Max looks at him. For once, there is no joke waiting behind his eyes.
“Would you want me to be? Normal.”
The question catches George entirely off guard.
He looks away, staring into the quiet paddock, and stays silent.
Because the honest answer comes far too easily.
No, he would not.
***
The flirting becomes impossible to ignore.
At first, George pretends he is imagining it. But with each passing weekend, the denial becomes harder to maintain.
Especially when he begins to realize just how accustomed he has become to Max's presence.
Worse, he has begun to expect it.
He looks for him in the paddock.
He notices when Max is not around.
He finds himself wondering what stupid joke Max will make the next time they cross paths.
His head turns automatically at the sound of Max’s voice somewhere behind him.
He recognizes the slight shift in the atmosphere whenever Max walks into a room.
He tells himself it is simply because they race each other.
Because Max is impossible for anyone to ignore.
Because they have known each other long enough that familiarity has simply become a habit.
It has nothing to do with whatever this flirting business is supposed to be.
Nothing to do with the way his stomach drops when Max appears unexpectedly.
Nothing to do with the fact that he has quietly started enjoying the disruption.
***
It keeps getting worse.
Because now, there is the touch.
A hand sliding against the small of his back when they happen to walk in the same direction.
A firm squeeze at his shoulder after a particularly difficult race.
A brief, lingering grip on his waist whenever they share a podium.
And George never moves away.
Worse still. Sometimes, his eyes drift down to Max's mouth, catching on the freckle just above his upper lip.
And in those moments, George knows he’s in trouble.
***
On another Sunday, long after the race, the media, the podium, and the final team debriefs, George sits alone, watching the rain streak down the hospitality windows.
He is waiting for the downpour to ease before heading to the hotel, though part of him is simply enjoying the quiet of the room.
He isn't surprised when the door slides open and Max appears.
He is damp from the rain, his hair a wind-blown mess, his jacket unzipped over a team t-shirt.
Max walks over and drops into the seat beside him. He leaves a few inches between them. A rare, unexpected moment of restraint, given the man has been finding every possible opportunity to put his hands on him lately.
George looks at the small gap. Then he looks up at Max’s face, taking in the damp eyelashes, the sharp blue eyes, and that familiar, challenging smirk.
George doesn't wait for Max to say something ridiculous. He doesn't wait for another joke.
Slowly, deliberately, George closes the distance himself. He shifts on the bench, pressing his thigh firmly against Max’s, letting their shoulders brush until there is no space left between them at all.
Max’s eyes widen just a fraction, caught off guard by the move.
The smirk softens into something genuine and warm.
“I still think you're crazy,” George whispers.
Max just laughs and doesn't move an inch away.
Later, George will wonder why he waited so long.
Why he allowed himself to spend months insisting that the feeling was irritation, amusement, rivalry, anything but what it actually was.
Perhaps because wanting Max feels too much like accepting the chaos. And George has always preferred control.
But there is something about Max that makes control feel overrated.
The kiss is not planned.
Or perhaps it has been, in some quiet way, for months.
They are standing close now, the air between them thick with everything left unsaid. For once, Max looks almost hesitant. He looks at George not like a challenge to win, but like something he is terrified of losing.
And George, exhausted by his own restraint, simply reaches for him.
The first kiss is almost cautious.
A question.
Max answers by closing the remaining distance between them.
George feels the tension he has been carrying for weeks finally give way, and something deep inside him loosens with it.
Max's hand settles firmly at the back of his neck.
George smiles against his mouth.
It is absurd.
He is kissing Max Verstappen.
The man who nearly drove him over a kerb during free practice.
The man who apologised without actually apologizing.
The man who drove through the rain as though the laws of physics were mere suggestions.
The man who has spent weeks making terrible jokes just to steal a smile.
The man who somehow managed to become the person George looks for first.
When they finally separate, Max keeps his forehead resting against his.
He is smiling too.
George closes his eyes. “Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to. And you'll ruin it.”
“Probably.”
George laughs softly.
He opens his eyes.
Max is still looking at him. There is no teasing in his expression now. Just warmth.
Maybe Max is insane.
Maybe George is, too.
Perhaps that is the very reason this works.
Because George does not want Max to be quieter, safer, less infuriating, less reckless, less himself.
He does not want to spend the rest of his life wondering what it would be like if Max were easier to understand.
He already knows the answer. It would be far less interesting.
And somewhere along the way, without noticing, George stopped wanting an easy life.
He wants this.
The chaos.
The arguments.
The laughter.
The person who keeps crashing into his carefully organised world and somehow making it feel more alive every single time.
George brushes his thumb over Max's cheek.
“I think I like you crazy.”
Max's eyebrows lift in quiet amusement.
George kisses him again before he can speak.
Maybe a lunatic is exactly what George has been looking for.